


Behind the Wheel

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: Otabek Altin Week 2017 [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biker AU, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Milabek is primary pairing, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, bottom otabek, love dodecahedron, top mila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: She’s so criminally good at making it all go away. If it’s not the strong drinks she serves, it’s the way that she throws her weight into starting the engine. If it’s not the way she starts the engine, it’s the way she revs it til it damn near floods. She tears down the highway, and the sting starts to fade. She merges off of the interstate as quickly as possible so they can get onto the scenic route, and the wind feels like a soothing balm against his scorched heart.





	Behind the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voslen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voslen/gifts).



> I have had the absolute honor of having multiple artists do fanart inspired by my fic. However, I've never sat down and purposefully wrote a fic based off of someone's art. Mukbang was close, because voslen was working on some noodle pieces, but that was wholly a fucking strange 48 hour fever dream. ANYWAY, I decided I wanted to try to do more fics based off of art, and starting with one of voslen's pieces was a no brainer. 
> 
> Fic is based off of this wonderful piece here: http://voslenonice.tumblr.com/post/158803004001/otamila-song-insp-behind-the-wheel

Otabek is weak. Of course, he thinks that he can conceal it.  He also thinks that he is concealing the purple hickey on his neck, and the bowie knife he never leaves the house without. Mila can see it a mile away jammed in the space between his under arm and his jacket. Otabek shows his weakness in the smallest of ways that only a woman can pick up on. So, when it’s four in the morning and Mila’s got the doors to the bar locked, it can only be one person when the sound of a spare key scrapes at the lock.  Otabek is weak. Of course he is. He’s a man after all. 

“It’s me,” he says as he walks across the bar, cloaked by darkness. All she has is the single light turned on as she counts down the till. 

“What’ll it be Otabek?” She pulls back the register drawer with a snap, grabs up a wad of bills, but doesn’t meet his gaze. She wants to be asked, of course. 

“Rye.”

“Neat?” She asks shoving the money into a fat rubber band, and dropping away from view to toss it into the safe below the register. 

“Yes, please.” 

Mila goes to the shelf. Her eyes linger for a moment on top shelf, but she settles on the middle. She loves him, but she isn’t in love with him. He’ll get middle shelf. She’ll leave the bottle while she finishes counting down the drawer, and he’ll love her for it. 

Mila plucks a clean glass from behind the bar. She offers him the glass, and the bottle. 

“Bike week?” One week every summer, their tight inner circle of twenty or thirty riders expands exponentially. Beer flows freely from the taps, and engines roar loud like the thunderous choir of a thousand or more horses sent from hell. She makes off like a bandit, but it’s hell on Earth while it’s going on. Right now she’s working off of four hours of sleep and adrenaline.  Right now her whole body feels like it’s been beaten to a pulp and tacked back together with sweat, spit, and tears. Right now Mila sees everything that she’s ever done wrong in her life in the shadows behind the bottles and in the lipstick coated butts scattered about the bar.

She knows damn well that Otabek feels the same right now. 

Otabek cocks a single brow at her, like he doesn’t have to respond because she knows what the answer is already. He fills his glass, and raises it to his mouth. 

“Look Altin, I’m sorry. But, you should expect this by now.” Mila reaches into the large crate on the bar floor changing out near empty bottles. She has half a mind to put him to work if he’s going to darken her doorway at this hour. “Every fuckin year, he rides down from Toronto, and every fucking year Yuri hops off your dick and onto his. It’s nothing new, and I’m tired of hearing about it.” 

Otabek clenches his jaw. In the dim light of the front bar, she can see the whiskey ripple as he squeezes on the rim of the glass. 

“Have you tried asking him not to?” She certainly knows the answer to this one. Despite being so bad at concealing, Otabek is hopelessly dependant upon it. 

Mila snaps the register shut. Then, she grabs the bottle of whiskey off of the table. She lets it brush her lips for a moment just to get a taste: heat, oak, smoke. Then, she presses her lips against Otabek’s for a moment just to get a taste. Heat, oak, and smoke are muted on his lips and overpowered by ash. His lower lip is split open, and when she runs her tongue over it he shudders against her. He tastes like dried blood. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here,” because he’s never the one to actually  _ say it _ .  

There have been plenty of nights where he’s locked up after himself, but not tonight. Mila grabs her bag and hops out from behind the bar. On her way out the door, she can hear the clink of heavy boots follow. Outside the eerie yellow lights of the street lamps wash out all the bullshit and bad blood between them. They start over new in the flickering lamplight, not as friends, or lovers, but two stripped bare souls. 

Otabek moves toward his own bike. 

“No way Altin,” she says. The voice that she uses with him is the same firm drawl that she keeps in the register drawer next to her Derringer to bust up fights.  “Not tonight.” 

Without a word, he turns on his heel, and directs himself toward her own jet black Yamaha. 

* * *

Yuri can say what he wants about her. Yeah, she’ll fuck you up if you so much as stand at her bar the wrong way. Yeah, she’s a fucking gossip, and can’t keep a goddamn secret to save her life. Yeah, she owes him $200 bucks from back when she was fucking that Italian chick. She wanted to take her babe out to Atlantic city for the weekend. She gambled away their gas money home because she’s a dumbass, and then she called him after Yuri told her to go fuck herself. Yeah, she’s tight, and not in a good way. Still owes him that money despite making ten grand or better tonight alone. 

But, she’s so criminally good at making it all go away. If it’s not the strong drinks she serves, it’s the way that she throws her weight into starting the engine. If it’s not the way she starts the engine, it’s the way she revs it til it damn near floods. She tears down the highway, and the sting starts to fade. She merges off of the interstate as quickly as possible so they can get onto the scenic route, and the wind feels like a soothing balm against his scorched heart. 

She whips the bike too fast round the corner of the old state turnpike, and next thing he knows they’re blasting down past the river going ninety-five miles an hour. 

Otabek feels like he’s on the very edge of the world when he’s like this. The stars are still out directly up above, but the sun creeps up out over the water, painting everything to his left in his field of vision in pink, orange, and violet. 

The sun crests over the water, and it’s like he doesn’t have any problems at all cause Mila’s blasted them away with cool air. It’s like he doesn’t have any problems at all, because there’s no one here on Earth at this ungodly hour except for Mila. That’s okay because Mila’s never given him any _ real _ trouble. 

The roar of the bike and the whip of the wind seem tranquil now after the past three or four days of near constant debauchery. Otabek’s running on just as little sleep as Mila, but he’s never felt more awake. It’s not anger or sadness anymore that keeps him going. Mila’s edged that out with whiskey on her lips and a promise that is spoken in the way that she jams the throttle. 

There’s nothing left but a haunting emptiness inside, and maybe just maybe she can fill it. Maybe fucking your boyfriend’s best friend isn’t the best way to deal with that feeling. Otabek wraps his arms around her slender waist, and pulls himself closer to her. He’s hard, but if she can feel it through both of their thick denim jeans, he doubts she particularly cares one way or the other. He rests his chin on her shoulder, and his lips touch the small swath of skin that peeks out between her own leather jacket and her undercut. Maybe fucking your boyfriend’s best friend isn’t the best way to deal with that feeling. Maybe neither he nor Yuri got the memo. 

When they finally stop at her apartment everything is bathed in the faint purple light that only happens when the sun is risen, but not yet high. While the world is about to slink out into that faint purple light, they’re going to run from it. 

“Why don’t you strip?” She asks when they get to her studio apartment. It’s nothing more than a room with a hotplate, and mattress on the floor that rarely has sheets on it. There’s the closet that spills out with clothing and shoes, and an incredibly small room with an unreasonably large clawfoot tub inside. It makes him feel anxious to stay inside this stifling human sized trinket box, but he’s never here for very long. 

Otabek complies with her request. He can feel his skin turn to dappled gooseflesh as he peels away his shirt. 

She disappears from view for a moment, hiding behind her closet door. In an instant she returns from behind the door with a devilish grin, and far fewer clothes. Mila of course, is far from a vision. She’s got bags underneath her eyes, and bruises all over her body. Some of them come from whomever else she’s taken home this week. These are scattered across her neck, and her collar bones, and her cleavage. Some come from not being able to dodge swings as fast as they come, and breaking up fights between men that are twice her size. These are brushed across her hips, and spattered in odd places like her stomach and her jawline.  

Her black lace panties have a hole where lace meets waistband, and a patch of skin peeks through. Her bra is unfitted and sags loosely across her shoulders. 

Here’s the thing, he knows he’s just as rough. He can’t remember when he last went home to change clothes. He’s rocking what’s left of a shiner from busting up a fight at Sharkey’s a few days ago, and it’s all purple and yellow around the edges. 

No fucking wonder Yuri wants to fuck someone else for the time being. 

Mila’s impish grin does nothing to conceal the wadded up silk scarf in her hand. She slips behind him, and he can feel the press of skin against skin, and the feeling of her threadbare bra against his back. She slips the fabric over his eyes, and ties it round his head. 

Then, she leaves him again, walking around his body so she’s in front of him. Her lips brush against his for just a moment, and then they’re gone. She nuzzles against his collarbone, and then she pulls back. “You like it when I drive Altin?” 

“Yeah,” he responds simply. He raises his hands upward to grab her hips and pull her close. She sinks her teeth into his collarbone in response “Ah-“. 

She drives.  

“Shhh,” she places an index finger over his mouth, drags her fingertip slow over his lips so that the tracing motion makes the soft skin drag. Then she slots her mouth over his. 

She tastes like smoke and the faint tinge of menthol. She kisses him real slow and real sweet. She kisses him like he’s her girl, and she’s trying to romance him. The push of her tongue into his mouth is slow, and she waits until he’s swept up into it to circle her hands around his waist. Fingernails dig into his ass like she’s feeling him up in a dark alley after a show. His dick is pressed against her stomach, and he’s rutting against her soft skin like he’s a horny kid on the first date. 

Too bad she doesn’t even have the decency to let him know she’s done being sweet with him until it’s too late. She catches his lip between her teeth, drags them across the soft skin, and bites down hard.  

“Mila,” her name is on his tongue thick and hot like a shot of whiskey. 

Mila pays him no mind. She gives the same treatment to his neck, and his shoulders, and his nipples, biting and pinching and tweaking until his entire body feels like it’s humming. She moves quickly, never lingering on one patch of skin longer than needed. She moves so thoroughly, never leaving an inch of skin untouched. She’s different from Yuri, who comes at him fast, and hard, and all at once. 

“Turn around.” She husks into his ear. 

Otabek is powerless under her touch, has no choice but to obey, and wouldn’t have it any other way. He turns around, and she’s walking him three steps across the floor. Then, she’s pushing him down onto his knees. He can’t  _ see _ due to the scarf tied around his eyes, but it  _ feels _ like there’s sheets on the mattress this time. 

“Lay down.” 

Otabek settles onto his stomach, and spreads his arms and legs out wide across the narrow mattress. His cock twitches against the sheets as the mattress dips against her weight when she joins him in bed. Mila spreads his cheeks wide, and his senses are heightened while he’s blindfolded. He can feel every hot puff of her breath, and every fiber in the sheets, and he can hear his own heart pounding in his ears. He’s at her mercy, and loves every second of it. She and hovers over him so close that he can feel her breath against his hole. “If you come again before I get mine Altin, I’m making you walk back to The Stockyard.” 

That’s all the warning he gets as she laps at his hole. 

Despite knowing what was coming, Otabek crawls up the mattress. Nails painted with chipped black polish dig into his ass and hold him firm. “Fuckin stop.” 

“A little warning would be nice,” Otabek huffs into the sheets. 

“Hm.” Mila doesn’t waste time by giving him a moment to adjust. She dives back in and probes him with her tongue, alternating between long swipes and jabbing motions that start at his hole and shoot up his spine. She flicks her tongue against him, and presses into him.

It always amazes Otabek how easy it is to get lost in Mila’s touch. When she does this for him it never feels like much, just a tug at the peripheral of his lust and his desire. Except, she keeps tugging, and tugging until it all comes undone and it infects every cell in his body. 

Mila is real good at charming you out of your last dime, and making you feel grateful for it.  Mila is real good at hiding cards up her sleeve during a game and, making you feel like you had a good shot. She’s real good at making all the pain go away. When he screws his eyes shut, all he can see is Mila. All he can feel is Mila. 

Mila is real good at making him do the opposite of what she wants. He can already feel the low rolling waves form in his stomach and crash in his groin where he ruts against the sheet. But Mila is also incredibly good at taking exactly what she wants. She comes up for air at the exact moment his body tenses. 

He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand how anyone can be so in tune with his body the way that she is. There’s a treacherous intimacy in the way that she moves up his body, and makes him suck on a finger. The knot on his blindfold is pulled backwards suddenly,  and Mila kisses him roughly. She works a single digit inside of him, and he nearly spills onto the bed without having his cock touched directly. 

It never gets that far. She’ll never do it without him asking even when the thunder starts to roll in with the lightning. Just when the lightning starts to make his toes curl, she’s pulling out and swatting his ass. “Over.” 

Otabek rolls over, and immediately he is enveloped in soft wet heat first. Next, the scarf is removed from around his eyes. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light of the room, but when he does, he sees nothing but Mila. She’s smooth white skin, and curves that bounce just right in time with the way she rides his cock. She’s crystal blue eyes, and purple red hair.  With each roll of the hips, he’s engulfed in the flames that are Mila. 

Mila directs  lopsided grin at him while she rides him. She barely makes a sound, but every so often a small little whimper or sigh will fall from her mouth. Otabek rubs her clit in rough uneven circles with his thumb, and finds immense delight the way that she stifles herself by biting her lip. 

Mila is real good at making  him feel numb with booze. She’s real good at chasing away everything that reminds him of a feeling. The danger of it all is that she’s damn good at bringing it all back around making him feel everything again all at once. From the way that his skin feels clammy from the draft, to the way that he feels sticky sticky with sweat, she makes him feel. From the way that she looks at him with half-lidded eyes to the way that he feels warmth spread across his back to his cock, he feels. 

He can only hope that he does the same for her. 

“Mila,” her name spills out of his mouth. “Please,” he begs her unapologetically. 

“Shh,” she places her index finger over his mouth, and rides him harder. She uses her athletic form to use him best she can. She hovers at the top of his cock, and lets herself fall downward impaling herself. Up and down, up and down, all the while Otabek is helpless to do anything other than grip the sheets and hold on. “There!” Her eyes flutter open while she clenches down on him hard, and that’s how he knows. 

Otabek grabs onto her hips, thrusts into her so hard that her soft sighs shift to harsh cries while he uses her body. He comes, and when he closes his eyes he sees stars. 

But the worst part of all is that for as much as she takes away the pain, it never stays gone for very long.

* * *

 

Yuri is weak. Of course, he thinks he’s concealing it, just like he thinks he’s concealing the purple hickey on his neck, and the pair of lace panties that stick up over the hem of his low rise jeans. Yuri shows weakness in the smallest of ways that only a woman can pick up on. o, when it’s four in the morning and Mila’s got the doors to the bar locked, it can only be one person when the sound of a spare key scrapes at the lock.  Yuri is weak. He’s a man after all. 

“Hey hag. Don’t shoot,” the last time Yuri didn’t announce himself after hours, Mila had her Derringer trained on him before she could even process who had walked into the door. 

“What’ll it be Yura?” She pulls back the register drawer with a snap, grabs up the wad of bills, but doesn’t meet his gaze. She wants to be asked of course. 

“Vodka Tonic.” 

Mila goes to the shelf. Her eyes linger for a moment on top shelf, but she settles on the middle. She loves him, but she isn’t in love with him. He’ll get middle shelf. She’ll leave the bottle while she finishes counting down the drawer, and he’ll love her for it. 

Mila plucks a clean glass from behind the bar, and offers him the glass, and the bottle. 

Mila plucks a clean glass from behind the bar, and offers him the glass, and the bottle. 

“Bike week?”

“Fucking bike week Mila. Jesus fuck. Otabek never takes fucking dick, but I fuckin know that’s what he does with that maple son of a bitch. He took the lube Mila.” Yuri drains the vodka tonic, pours more vodka into the glass, and offers it to her so she can add more tonic. He reaches into his too tight pants, and tosses her his keys. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” 

* * *

 


End file.
